Origins…

“ Come away…come away, o love, from the prisons of pain and the keepers thereof
For I have found a way.
Come away from the holding of thy sad hands, for I have found a way.
Seized am I with a burning passion to free from thy cage.
Come away… The temple walls be falling, I have found a way.
I am thy lover, I am thy teacher, renounce all and follow me.
The vast firmament, the limitless space enfold me,
For I have found a way” – Jiddu Krishnamurti

Origins…So, this post started out with me listening to Davy Graham (listen below). He is an important character along with Anne Briggs in the British Folk scene from years ago. I am always looking for the roots, the seminal moments of movements, art, culture. Of course, it is perhaps first a stream, then a river, when what we are really talking about are the rivulets that started it all along the way.

There seems to be streams of creativity; one person can spark many, and those in turn can start others up. It’s the cascade effect. Do something well, get it out there, and all else follows. You see the mutations of the original impulse almost immediately, as someone else’s perception will alter the original, sometimes just ever so slightly. Each of these modifications are necessary for greater distribution of the original concept, regardless of the gloss layered upon it by it’s handling along the way.

Davy Graham travels to Morocco and other points in North Africa in the late 50′s, early 60′s. Along the way whilst studying the culture and its music, he discovers the tuning of DADGAD (well recognizes it’s potential) and brings it back to the UK. Along the way he writes a few songs, “Anji”, “She moved thru’ the Bizarre/Blue Raga” (you’ll probably know it as Jimmy Page’s “White Summer”). His will be the first music heard in Britain using tablas, and various other exotic instruments. He got there first, and in doing so with the tuning re-united two folk traditions that had been separated for some 2800 years; North African and Celtic musics. (Remember that one branch of the Celts came through the Mediterranean basin and spent some time there in North Africa before moving up the western coast to Galatia, and then the British Isles…)

One must of course put this in perspective; there has been a flow of ideas back and forth from Europe and the “East” for a very long time. The events around Davy Graham and his introduction of DADGAD might be compared to the period of time when the Sufi Minstrels interacted with their European counterparts, the Troubadours. This moment brought forth many mutations, the Lute from the Oud, the concept of romantic love, and the flowering of the court at Aquitaine under Elanor.

The events surrounding Davy may of happened anyway, but none the less these events can be traced to one person and it is fairly well recognized. One person can change world views, and some how not be counted by those just slightly removed from his or her time.

The world of culture are full of such examples. These are the founts, from which the waters of creativity flow, though downstream one sees a river, where once it started from a spring in the mountains long before.

Bright Blessings,
Gwyllm

Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will. – George Bernard Shaw

I cannot imagine a God who rewards and punishes the objects of his creation and is but a reflection of human frailty. – Albert Einstein

I will far rather see the race of man extinct than that we should become less than beasts by making the noblest of God’s creation, woman, the object of our lust. –
Mohandas Gandhi

While I know myself as a creation of God, I am also obligated to realize and remember that everyone else and everything else are also God’s creation.
Maya Angelou

A subject for a great poet would be God’s boredom after the seventh day of creation. – Friedrich Nietzsche

Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is art. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

The creation of a thousand forests is in one acorn. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. – Edgar Allan Poe

I would define, in brief, the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. – Edgar Allan Poe

Every act of creation is first an act of destruction. – Pablo Picasso

Without culture, and the relative freedom it implies, society, even when perfect, is but a jungle. This is why any authentic creation is a gift to the future. – Albert Camus

To destroy is always the first step in any creation. – e. e. cummings

A creation of importance can only be produced when its author isolates himself, it is a child of solitude. – Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Let us dream of tomorrow where we can truly love from the soul, and know love as the ultimate truth at the heart of all creation. – Michael Jackson

Language ought to be the joint creation of poets and manual workers. – George Orwell

The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves. – Carl Jung

Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath. – Emily Dickinson

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Davy Graham – Maajun (A Taste of Tangier)

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Salish Creation Myth
Old-Man-in-the-Sky created the world. Then he drained all the water off the earth and crowded it into the big salt holes now called the oceans. The land became dry except for the lakes and rivers. Old Man Coyote often became lonely and went up to the Sky World just to talk. One time he was so unhappy that he was crying. Old- Man-in-the-Sky questioned him.

“Why are you so unhappy that you are crying? Have I not made much land for you to run around on? Are not Chief Beaver, Chief Otter, Chief Bear, and Chief Buffalo on the land to keep you company?”

Old Man Coyote sat down and cried more tears. Old-Man-in-the-Sky became cross and began to scold him. “Foolish Old Man Coyote, you must not drop so much water down upon the land. Have I not worked many days to dry it? Soon you will have it all covered with water again. What is the trouble with you? What more do you want to make you happy?”

“I am very lonely because I have no one to talk to,” he replied. “Chief Beaver, Chief Otter, Chief Bear, and Chief Buffalo are busy with their families. They do not have time to visit with me. I want people of my own, so that I may watch over them.”

“Then stop this shedding of water,” said Old-Man-in-the-Sky. “If you will stop annoying me with your visits, I will make people for you. Take this parfleche. It is a bag made of rawhide. Take it some place in the mountain where there is red earth. Fill it and bring it back up to me.”

Old Man Coyote took the bag made of the skin of an animal and traveled many days and nights. At last he came to a mountain where there was much red soil. He was very weary after such a long journey but he managed to fill the parfleche. Then he was sleepy. “I will lie down to sleep for a while. When I waken, I will run swiftly back to Old-Man-in-the-Sky.” He slept very soundly.

After a while, Mountain Sheep came along. He saw the bag and looked to see what was in it. “The poor fool has come a long distance to get such a big load of red soil,” he said to himself. “I do not know what he wants it for, but I will have fun with him.” Mountain Sheep dumped all of the red soil out upon the mountain. He filled the lower part of the parfleche with white solid, and the upper part with red soil. Then laughing heartily, he ran to his hiding place.

Soon Old Man Coyote woke up. He tied the top of the bag and hurried with it to Old-Man-in-the-Sky. When he arrived with it, the sun was going to sleep. It was so dark that the two of them could hardly see the soil in the parfleche. Old-Man-in-the-Sky took the dirt and said, “I will make this soil into the forms of two men and two women.”

He did not see that half of the soil was red and the other half white. Then he said to Old Man Coyote, “Take these to the dry land below. They are your people. You can talk with them. So do not come up here to trouble me.” Then he finished shaping the two men and two women — in the darkness.

Old Man Coyote put them in the parfleche and carried them down to dry land. In the morning he took them out and put breath into them. He was surprised to see that one pair was red and the other was white. “Now I know that Mountain Sheep came while I was asleep. I cannot keep these two colors together.” He thought a while. Then he carried the white ones to the land by the big salt hole. The red ones he kept in his own land so that he could visit with them. That is how Indians and white people came to the earth.
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The Poetry of Jiddu Krishnamurti:

I Have No Name

I have no name,
I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains.
I have no shelter;
I am as the wandering waters.
I have no sanctuary, like the dark gods;
Nor am I in the shadow of deep temples.
I have no sacred books;
Nor am I well-seasoned in tradition.
I am not in the incense
Mounting on the high altars,
Nor in the pomp of ceremonies.
I am neither in the graven image,
Nor in the rich chant of a melodious voice.
I am not bound by theories,
Nor corrupted by beliefs.
I am not held in the bondage of religions,
Nor in the pious agony of their priests.
I am not entrapped by philosophies,
Nor held in the power of their sects.
I am neither low nor high,
I am the worshipper and the worshipped.
I am free.
My song is the song of the river
Calling for the open seas,
Wandering, wandering,
I am Life.
I have no name,
I am as the fresh breeze of the mountains.
–

The Simple Union

Listen to me, O friend.
Be thou a yogi, a monk, a priest,
A devout lover of God,
A pilgrim searching for Happiness, Bathing in holy rivers,
Visiting sacred shrines,
The occasional worshipper of a day,
A great reader of books, Or a builder of many temples –
My love aches for thee.
I know the way to the heart of the Beloved.
This vain struggle,
This long toil,
This ceaseless sorrow,
This changing pleasure,
This burning doubt,
This burden of life,
All these will cease, O friend –
My love aches for thee.
I know the way to the heart of the Beloved.
Have I pilgrimage the earth,
Have I loved the reflections,
Have I chanted, singing in ecstasy,
Have I donned the robe,
Have I put on ashes,
Have I listened to the temple bells,
Have I grown old with study,
Have I searched,
Was I lost?
Yea, much have I known –
My love aches for thee.
I know the way to the heart of the Beloved,
O friend,
Wouldst thou love the reflection,
If I can give thee the reality?
Throw away thy bells, thine incense,
Thy fears and thy gods,
Set aside thy systems, thy philosophies.
Come,
Put aside all these.
I know the way to the heart of the Beloved.
O friend,
The simple union is the best.
This is the way to the heart of the Beloved.
—

The Garden Of My Heart

I am the path
Leading to the sheltered garden
Of thy heart,
O world.
I am the fountain
That feeds thy garden,
O world,
With the tears
Of my experience.
I am the scented flower
That beautifies thy garden,
The honey thereof,
The delight of thy heart.
Destroy thy weeds In thy garden,
O world,
And keep thy heart
Pure and strong,
For there alone I can grow.
Create no barriers
In the garden of thy heart,
O world,
For in limitation
I wither and die.
I have a garden
In my heart,
O world,
Where every flower
Speaketh of thee.
Open the gates
Of the garden of thy heart,
O world,
And let me in.
Without me
There shall be no shade,
Nor the soft breeze
From the cool mountains.
I have a garden in my heart,
O world,
That hath no beginning
And no end,
Where the mighty
Do sit with the poor,
Where the Gods
Do delight with the human.
Open as the vast skies,
Clear as the mountain stream,
Strong as the tree in the wind,
Is my heart.
Come,
O world,
Gather thy flowers
In the garden of my heart.
—